Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
I think I might be sick.
“This is insane,” I whisper. “This whole family is insane.”
“Yes.” Elena’s agreement is matter-of-fact. “But you knew that already. The question is whether you’re strong enough to survive it.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“No. You don’t.” She reaches out and gently touches my arm. “I wish I could tell you it gets easier. That eventually you stop feeling like property. That the brand stops burning when you look at it in the mirror.”
“But it doesn’t.”
“But it doesn’t.” Her hand drops away. “I’ve been Roman Bishop’s wife for thirty years. And every single day, I feel the weight of that iron on my skin. Every single day, I remember that I’m not a person in this family. I’m a possession.”
The hopelessness in her voice breaks something in me.
“How are you still here?” I ask. “Don’t you want to leave?”
“Leave? Where would I go?” Elena laughs, bitter and sharp. “I have four sons who need me, even if they pretend they don’t. I have no money that isn’t Roman’s. No skills that would support me in the real world. And if I tried to run...” The look in her eyes is nothing short of fear. “Roman would find me. And what he’d do to me would make the branding look gentle.”
She moves back toward the living room, and I follow, legs feeling unsteady.
At the door, Elena pauses with her hand on the knob. “You seem strong,” she says, looking back at me. “Stronger than I was at your age. Maybe that will be enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“To survive this family without losing yourself completely.” She opens the door and steps onto the porch. “I lost myself thirty years ago. But you... maybe you can hold on to who you are. Maybe Calder will let you.”
“He forced me into this marriage,” I point out, the words tasting bitter. “I don’t think he cares about who I am.”
Something flickers across Elena’s face. Almost pity, but not quite. “I think you’re wrong about that. Calder chose you. He betrayed his family, the only thing he’s ever known, for you. I think he cares more about who you are than you want to believe.” She starts down the porch steps, then pauses as if she’s forgetting something. “One more thing, Saint.”
“Yes?”
“During the branding, when the pain is at its worst, find something to focus on. A memory. A prayer. Something that belongs to you and only you. Hold on to it like a lifeline.” Her eyes meet mine one last time. “Because once that iron touches your skin, Roman will own a piece of you forever. What he won’t ever be able to touch unless you give it to him is your mind and soul. Keep those for you.”
I don’t know what to say, and she doesn’t care to wait for my response. She continues down the steps and walks across the yard toward her car, leaving me standing in the doorway, my coffee growing cold and her warnings echoing in my head.
I watch her drive away, dust kicking up behind her tires. That’s when I finally break. I go back inside, close the door, and lock it behind me. My knees buckle, and I lean against the wall before I sink to the floor with my back against the wood.
Tomorrow night, they’re going to brand me. Going to mark me as Bishop property the same way they mark cattle. And after that, after I’ve healed enough to move, they’ll force me into some twisted wedding ceremony. I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and finally let myself break. Not crying, I’m too numb for tears. Just sitting there on the floor while the Montana sun slants through the windows and reality crashes over me in waves.
Elena Bishop has survived thirty years of this.
Can I do the same?
Part of me is afraid that tomorrow will break something inside me that can’t ever be fixed. I can either wallow in pity or face the darkness head-on. It doesn’t matter if I’m ready. Bad things happen to good people all the time. I can’t change what is going to happen. I can only change my reaction.
Eventually, I pull myself together. My legs are shaky when I stand, and it feels like they might give out on me at any moment. Do something, Saint. Anything. Remind yourself who you are. Find something that you have control over.
That’s when I see the liquor cabinet in the corner of the kitchen.
It’s probably stocked by whoever furnished this house and filled with expensive stuff that the Bishops think nothing of keeping around. I cross the room and open it. There are rows upon rows of liquor and bourbon.
Whiskey. Vodka. Rum. Gin.
I reach for the whiskey, the good kind, amber liquid in a heavy crystal bottle. I pour myself a glass and let the burn warm me from the inside out.